


Vinny gets advice

by youcouldmakealife



Series: Vinny gets a life [14]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-26
Updated: 2015-07-26
Packaged: 2018-04-11 08:43:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4428872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Maybe we can arrange a swap,” Fournier says. “My back up has the personality of a rock. Not even a bad ass rock or anything. Like a pebble, Vinny. My back up is a pebble.”</p><p>“Maybe Connors thinks I’m a pebble,” Thomas says.</p><p>“You can’t be a pebble,” Fournier says, like he’s stating the obvious.</p><p>Thomas frowns. “Why can’t I be?” he asks.</p><p>“You’re squishy, Vinny,” Fournier says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vinny gets advice

Thomas wakes up before Anton for once. This is something he’s aware of immediately, because when he wakes up, it’s to Anton’s breath hot against the back of his neck, arm still slung over his side. It’s a quick reminder of the day before, an unwelcome one, but more than that, it’s so comfortable Thomas is tempted to curl into the warmth, go back to sleep until he has to get ready for the flight to Quebec City. He doesn’t, but when Anton’s alarm goes off, vibrating in his pants pocket on the floor, Thomas slows his breathing, relaxes his body without even thinking about it, because the last thing he needs right now is Anton getting awkward with him too, because it’s feeling more and more like he doesn’t have friends in the room, even though he knows that’s bull.

Anton pulls away, muttering something under his breath and silencing the alarm before he freezes, like he’s just realised where he is. He’s out of bed a second later, and it can’t be more than five minutes before the front door slams shut, Anton off on his morning jog, and Thomas figures it’s past time for him to get out of bed.

 _NEED U_ , he sends Fournier in all-caps.

 _WORST_ , Fournier responds quickly, and Thomas belatedly remembers that Fourns is an hour behind, but Fourns skypes him regardless.

“Generally people sleep in on their days off,” Fournier tells Thomas.

“I couldn’t,” Thomas says.

“I meant me, actually,” Fournier says.

“Sorry,” Thomas mumbles.

“Whoa, what’s that face, Vinny?” Fournier asks.

“Can I talk to you?” Thomas asks.

“We’re talking right now,” Fournier says, then, clearly because of whatever look’s on Thomas’ face, “Of course. What’s wrong?”

“You have to promise not to tell anyone,” Thomas says.

“Do pinkie swears count on skype?” Fournier asks with a laugh.

“Stop, I’m serious,” Thomas says.

“What’s up, kid?” Fournier asks.

“Promise first,” Thomas says. “And you really can’t tell Tony.”

“I don’t know what you think my relationship with Petrov is, but trust me, Petrov and I aren’t having skype dates behind your back,” Fournier says. “I am like ninety percent sure he’s tried to melt me with his eyes before.”

“ _Mich_ ,” Thomas says.

“Okay, I promise, jesus,” Fournier says. “What’s up?”

Thomas tells him about the past couple days. Abridged, but he thinks it mostly sums things up.

“I’m sorry, Vin,” Fournier says, serious now. “He sounds like a fucking douchebag. You don’t deserve this shit.”

“I know,” Thomas says. And he does, but it still feels kind of good to hear it.

“Maybe we can arrange a swap,” Fournier says. “My back up has the personality of a rock. Not even a bad ass rock or anything. Like a pebble, Vinny. My back up is a pebble.”

“Maybe Connors thinks I’m a pebble,” Thomas says.

“You can’t be a pebble,” Fournier says, like he’s stating the obvious.

Thomas frowns. “Why can’t I be?” he asks.

“You’re squishy, Vinny,” Fournier says. 

Thomas frowns deeper. “I’m not squishy,” he argues.

“You are so squishy,” Fournier says. 

“Am not,” Thomas says, and before Fournier can respond, likely with an ‘are so’, “What am I supposed to _do_?”

“Anyone else, I’d tell them to go talk to Connors, see what his problem with them was, if they’d accidentally insulted him or something, then try to fix shit,” Fournier says.

“But?” Thomas asks.

“But I know you, and this is all his issues, not something you did. Connors doesn’t like you, and he isn’t going to, and there really isn’t anything you can do about it,” Fournier says. 

Thomas flinches.

“You should talk to Bovard,” Fournier says. 

“I don’t want to bring anyone into it,” Thomas says. “And he called me a snitch last time.”

“Yeah,” Fournier says. “But this keeps going on, and there’s no way the room doesn’t notice. I don’t think that’d work out in Connors’ favour, but it’d fuck up the room anyway. You want to keep them out of it, right?”

Thomas nods. 

“Talk to Bovard,” Fournier says. “Connors may not respect you, but he’s sure as shit going to listen to his captain, and if it doesn’t make a difference, it’s up to Bovard whether he wants to take it to Gagnon.”

“I’m not bringing _Gagnon_ into this,” Thomas says.

“Honestly, that shouldn’t be up to you,” Fournier says. “It’s not just about you and Connors, Vinny, this turns into a power struggle and the whole room gets poisoned. Serge will know, okay? Trust him. I played with him over a decade, he’s your best bet here.”

“I don’t want to be a snitch,” Thomas mumbles.

“You’re not one,” Fournier says. “You’re reporting unacceptable behaviour to your captain, whose job it is to make sure the team functions. What do you think’s going to happen if Petrov or Carmen finds out?”

Thomas opens his mouth.

“No one wants a brawl at practice,” Fournier says. “And you know Petrov will start shit, because you specifically made me promise not to tell him. I’m not your dad, I’m not going to tell Bovard if you don’t, but you really do need to, Vinny.”

“Yeah,” Thomas mumbles. “I wish it was still you.”

“I know,” Fournier says. “I miss you too. Fucking pebble in my shoe.”

The front door slams shut. “Vinny, if you aren’t up we won’t have time for breakfast before the airport,” Anton yells. 

“The mistress beckons,” Fournier says.

“I can’t imagine why Anton’s tried to melt you with his eyes,” Thomas says.

Fournier laughs. “You got this, Vin,” he says. “Okay?”

“Sure,” Thomas says, with confidence he doesn’t really feel. “Thanks Fourns.”

He goes downstairs and makes Anton breakfast, which was Anton’s unsubtle goal. Avoids Connors in the airport, on the plane, instead napping through the short flight, even though they spend more time taking off and landing than in the air. Anton’s acting normal with him, at least, so there aren’t two teammates Thomas can’t make eye contact with.

Connors wins the game, no surprise, and Thomas bumps his helmet like always, but other than that they manage to successfully ignore each other the entire time. Thomas would almost think that works, but he’s got a pit in his stomach and plenty of guys seem to have caught on that things are weird, because Thomas usually isn’t quiet unless they lose. They’re wheels up after the game, because they have a three day break before they’re heading anywhere else, and Thomas tries to sleep again, but the atmosphere’s cheerful with the win, too loud to sleep through.

The next day Thomas has almost convinced himself that it’s nothing, that it was a weird thing that happened and will never happen again, but Fourns texts him with a _talked to Serge?_ , which is probably something he should do. 

He tags along with Anton to practice the next morning, and pretends he’s oblivious to Anton’s weird looks. It’s optional practice, and usually goalies don’t show up, but Bovard never misses one, and Thomas figures it’s a safely Connors free zone, so it’s his best bet.

He gets some shit in the room about usually being too good for it, but it’s all good-natured. 

“Can I talk to you after practice?” Thomas asks Bovard before they hit the ice.

Bovard gives him a searching look. “Yeah, Tommo,” he says, finally.

After practice Thomas wanders over to Anton’s side of the room. “Go on ahead without me,” Thomas says. “I’ve got to talk to Bovard for a minute.”

“I can wait,” Anton says, getting that worried look on his face that’s kept coming up since the loss. “No worries.”

“I’ll just walk,” Thomas says. “It’s fine, Tony.”

“It’s like minus twenty-five out,” Anton says.

“I grew up in Sudbury,” Thomas says.

“Vinny, I grew up in Connecticut, not Texas, it’s not _that_ different,” Anton says. “Besides, I’m Russian. How’d your people do against Russia’s winter?”

“Mon Dieu, every winter you bring up Napoleon,” Depardieu says. “Tony, no more Napoleon.”

“Why are you only Russian when you talk with Canadians about weather?” Denisovich chimes in.

“Ah, fuck all of you, I’m out,” Anton says. “But seriously, take a cab, Vinny, if you get frostbite I’m just going to laugh at you.”

Thomas doesn’t even have to say anything: the rest of the room loudly lets Anton know how plausible they thought that threat was. Anton waves goodbye with two middle fingers, and Thomas smothers a smile before going over to Bovard.

“Fourns said I should talk to you,” Thomas says uncomfortably. He likes Bovard a lot, but right now talking to him feels like going to the principal’s office or something. Usually he’s just Bovard, but right now he’s Serge Bovard, Captain, and Thomas has never come to him in that context before. 

“Michel is generally pretty smart,” Bovard says. “Is it about your games? Because that’s probably something for Pressault or Gagnon.”

“No,” Thomas says. Though maybe Pressault is the better option anyway. If Connors is going to listen to his captain, he’d even more likely listen to his goaltending coach. It’s only a knee-jerk aversion to going to authority in general that cuts that idea off. “You know how you talked to Connors because things were weird?” 

“Yes?” Bovard says.

“I — it’s kind of only gotten worse,” Thomas mumbles.

Bovard looks at him for a moment. “Let’s get some lunch,” he says finally.

“I’m not really hungry,” Thomas says.

“It was a gentle order, but an order nonetheless,” Bovard says. “Also, you must be starving, come on.”

Bovard drags him out to some trendy place in Old Montreal. Thomas feels under dressed, and it’s packed to the point where Thomas is pretty sure they just knocked out someone with reservations, because the manager came out and spoke to Bovard pretty much the second they stepped in the door, but there’s mac and cheese on the menu, and Thomas is aware he has a weakness. It’s probably some super fancy mac and cheese, but it’s still mac and cheese. 

Bovard only smirks at him a little when he orders it. He doesn’t even make Thomas talk about it right away, tells Thomas about what’s going on with his kids and asks how Fourns is doing, even though Thomas is pretty sure they’re still in touch, and asks about how Thomas is liking living with Anton, which is kind of awkward too, but in a different way.

The mac and cheese comes, and it’s so good Thomas wants to cry. “I’m going to marry this,” he tells Bovard seriously.

“Petrov might protest,” Bovard says.

“ _Serge_ ,” Thomas says.

“Sorry, you made it too easy,” Bovard says.

He doesn’t really sound sorry, but he brought Thomas to this place and its mac and cheese, so he’s forgiven. He even lets Thomas get halfway through it before he says, “Let’s talk about Connors.”

Thomas had almost forgotten why they were here. Not that him and Bovard go to lunch together a lot, but it’s not like they don’t talk. Bovard’s good with the whole team, but everyone knows he’s got a soft spot for the Francophones, the way that Bradley takes care of the non-Francos and Depardieu dotes on the d-men. He’s a lot more eloquent in French than in English, so Thomas kind of gets it.

“It’s not a big deal,” Thomas says.

“Why don’t you tell me what’s up, and I’ll decide if it’s a big deal,” Bovard says.

“You are like the most fatherly dad in the world,” Thomas says.

“I will take that as a compliment,” Bovard says. “Stop stalling.”

“It’s really not a big deal,” Thomas says.

“You’ve said,” Bovard says. “At this rate I will be unsurprised if he murdered your dog.”

“I don’t have a dog,” Thomas says.

“ _Vinny_ ,” Bovard says, sharp.

“Okay,” Thomas mumbles. “Okay, so you know how I totally screwed that game up?”

“Tommo — ” Bovard starts.

“Don’t like — we both know I did,” Thomas says. He’s not looking for a pep talk. “After the game Connors told me to stop undoing all his work every time I got on the ice.”

Bovard’s quiet for a minute. “He what?” he asks, finally. Thomas has never found Bovard intimidating, never got why some people did, the same way he can’t take the idea of Anton being intimidating seriously, but right now, his voice low and dangerous, he suddenly gets it.

“It’s not a big deal,” Thomas mumbles. “Fourns just — I don’t want the room to be weird.”

Bovard’s quiet again. Thomas would have thought he’d lost his appetite, and he kind of has, but the food’s so good he returns to it anyway. “I’ll talk to him,” Bovard says, then, “Does Petrov know?”

Before Thomas can answer, Bovard answers his own question. “Of course he doesn’t, there hasn’t been blood on the ice.”

“Hey,” Thomas says mildly. Everyone’s probably right that Anton would be pissed, but he’s not sure why they all arrive at a fistfight. Tony can’t throw a punch to save his life.

“Are you going to tell him?” Bovard asks.

“No way,” Thomas says.

“Okay,” Bovard says. “Good. That will probably make things a little easier.”

Bovard insists on paying for lunch, which Thomas feels kind of bad about, considering he basically paid to have Thomas tell him his problems, and gives Thomas a ride home, which he knows for a fact is out of his way. 

“You did the right thing,” Bovard says, when he pulls up in front of the house. “Telling me.”

“Fourns told me to,” Thomas says.

“Regardless,” Bovard says. “I’ll fix this, okay, Vinny?”

“Thanks,” Thomas says. 

Anton’s sprawled on the couch when Thomas comes in. “So much for a two minute talk,” he says.

Thomas would usually plop himself down on Anton, forcing him to make room with a grumble, but things feel a little tentative. He does it anyway, because fake it ‘til you make it. “Bovard bought me mac and cheese,” he says. “From a fancy place.”

“Can’t be that fancy if it has mac and cheese,” Anton says, pushing at Thomas until he gets off his leg. 

“You’re just jealous,” Thomas says.

“Oh no, can’t be Vinny, everybody’s favourite,” Anton says in a monotone.

“ _Your_ favourite,” Thomas says, which isn’t really a very good retort, probably.

“Yeah,” Anton says. “Sometimes, I guess. Everything okay?”

Thomas gives him a thumbs up and hopes soon it won’t feel like a lie.


End file.
